


Beauty in the Breakdown

by ooinugirloo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, Handcuffs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Derek, Sub Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:56:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooinugirloo/pseuds/ooinugirloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't know when he started craving it--when he started needing the feeling of cold metal on his wrists, the restriction and the tension. All he knows is that he does, desperately sometimes, and there's only one person he trusts to give it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty in the Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for: “Derek has a thing for handcuffs.” Anon didn’t specify bottom Derek or bottom Stiles, so I defaulted to my favorite, bottom Derek, who became rather more subby than the prompt implied. Whoops. Anyway, have some sub!Derek feels, with a bit of handcuff porn thrown in for good measure. Sterek, Derek POV, NSFW

The metallic _click-snick_ of the lock engaging, the tightness in your shoulders, how it forces your back straight and your head up—you love all of those things. You love being put on your knees, petted and stroked and totally at his mercy. Stiles’s hands are large and gentle on your face, carding through your hair, kneading at the tense muscles of your shoulders. He speaks softly, voice low and rough, full of praise. This comfort took years to build—blood and tears and hours in each other’s company—but what you have with him is stronger than anything you’ve ever had outside of your family. He knows you better than anyone—knows how you love watching rainstorms but don’t like lightning, how you take your coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of cream, how you secretly love cats even if they can’t stand to be around you. You were friends before you were anything else, the two of you _—“Well,” Stiles muses with a fond smile, “I was convinced that you were going to murder me in my sleep for the first year I knew you, so I think saying we started as ‘friends’ is pushing it a little, Der.”_ —which is probably why you trust him so much now. Though, despite your best intentions at the time, honestly, you trusted him from the beginning—trusted him to tell you when you were wrong, to be the brains of the ragtag bunch of teens you somehow inherited.

This feels like a natural extension of that; if you trusted him with the safety of the pack, why wouldn’t you trust him with yourself? And you do—you feel calmest, safest, cuffed at his feet. It isn’t even a power thing, not for him, and not really for you. He does it because you like it, and that’s enough for him to like it too. You both know that you could break the standard human-strength metal handcuffs easily; that isn’t the point, it’s what the cuffs symbolize, the headspace they let you get into. You’ve been angry and confused for most of your adult life—first struggling with the death of your family and trying to be strong for your sister, then suddenly becoming an alpha and being responsible for a group of fledgling kids, and then not having the power you were starting to get used to and your pack again in upheaval—you never had time for yourself. You couldn’t be selfish or self-indulgent, couldn’t be weak or vulnerable, couldn’t get too close to anyone. It was, unsurprisingly, Stiles that made you realize that after everything—after the kanima and the Alpha Pack and the nogitsune, and every other godforsaken terror that visited Beacon Hills in those years—that you didn’t have to be on your guard all the time anymore. He was at the loft, sitting on the couch after having queued up a movie on Netflix, and you were just walking back in from making popcorn in the kitchen when he turned towards you and blurted _“You know we’re with you now, right? Like, we’re going to college, but we’ll be back—you can’t get rid of us now, we’ve imprinted, you’re stuck with us.”_ You stopped dead in your tracks, thrown, clutching the bowl of popcorn in your hands. Stiles fidgeted, cheeks going pink. _“It’s just—you still seem lonely sometimes, like you have to do everything yourself and I just wanted to make sure that you knew that we’re here now. For good. I’m here, for good.”_ Your heart swooped in your chest, something suspiciously like joy and hope tickling under your lungs. You set the popcorn down on the end of the couch and walk in front of him, dropping to your knees for the first time. Stiles looks concerned, but open, ready to accept whatever you need. You bend forward, resting your forehead on his knee and just breathe. After a minute, he strokes your head gently, tentatively. You make no move to stop him and he continues, running his fingers through your hair. You relax completely for the first time in years, muscles going lax and pliant, and you know that he is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

It’s been years since then, and you two are established now, you know each other, know what each other needs. Stiles barely even has to look at you some days before he’s pulling the cuffs out of the drawer and snapping them on your wrists. You’re glad that he understands when you need them, because even you don’t, most of the time. It’s just like there was an oppressive weight on your chest until he ties your hands and takes the burden of action off of you. Ironically, you feel freer when he cuffs you, content in the knowledge that he will take care of you. You like being on your knees when you’re in that sort of mood, and Stiles accepted it the same way he did when you first asked to be cuffed (the next day he showed up at the loft with an accomplished smirk, pulled a pair of standard-issue police handcuffs out of his back pocket and said _“I swiped ‘em from the station—figured we could give them a test run, and then buy our own once we’re sure we like them.”_ ) and strokes his big, warm hands down your neck and back reassuringly.

The handcuffs aren’t just a sexual thing for you—you just like wearing them sometimes, watching a movie on the couch with your head in his lap, enjoying the feeling of being out of your own control—but when Stiles uses them in sex, the results always blow your mind. You spend hours naked except for the gleaming silver metal cinching your wrists together, eagerly gagging yourself on his cock. Sometimes he uses your bound wrists as leverage and pushes your chest down flat against a desk or table, slowly fucking into you from behind. Other days he cuffs you to the bedframe, spread eagle, and watches you writhe as he teasingly skates a vibrator over your prostate, working you up until you’re sobbing and coming untouched with a hoarse shout, gathering you into his arms afterwards, petting and soothing. Occasionally, he’ll cuff your arms in front of your body, have you touch yourself while he watches. He’ll put you on your back with him kneeling between your legs, cuffed arms fitting perfectly around his neck to pull him down to you, kissing him greedily as he fills you, moans slipping past your lips when you come up for air. When you’re especially worked up, he’ll cuff your wrists to your ankles, bending you in two, and spank you until your ass is cherry red and your dick is flushed and dripping with precum, the feeling of his hands on your throbbing ass enough to send you tipping over into orgasm. You aren’t always cuffed during sex, but you like it when you are, so Stiles makes sure it happens a lot. This is one of many things you’re grateful for, with Stiles. You can’t imagine anyone better for you than him, can’t imagine your life without him in it.

One day, nearly 10 years from when the two of you first met, Stiles fastens a pair of handcuffs first around your left wrist and then his right. _“You’re stuck with me now, Der.”_ He jokes, lacing his fingers through yours, eyes warm. Your heart swells with a mixture of elation, aching fondness and deep, unassailable love. You realize then that it wasn’t the cuffs making you feel safe and secure—it was him. It had always been Stiles. And you are finally right where you want to be.


End file.
